


Training

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Partners [2]
Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Boys Kissing, Crushes, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s another part of Sakuraba that just doesn’t want to go home, that has been quietly enjoying Takami's focused attention, tangible as a touch even from across the length of the field." Sakuraba and Takami have a moment after their additional training session together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training

By the end of the second hour of training, Sakuraba can feel the exhaustion dragging heavy at his feet. Every jump takes a little more effort, each landing is a little shakier, and even though he doesn’t have to do more than raise his hands for Takami’s throw to land solidly against his palms, even that motion is becoming slow and awkward. He’s willing to press on, though, is raising his arm to toss the ball back to Takami, when he realizes the other boy is waving his arms above his head to stop the motion, jogging out to meet him at the other end of the field.

“That’s enough for today,” he calls as soon as he comes within earshot. He’s running easily enough, looking lighter on his feet than Sakuraba feels, but as he draws to a halt he rolls his shoulder, reaches up unconsciously to rub at the joint, and Sakuraba realizes that he’s not the only one feeling the effort of the extra training. “If we keep going you’ll miss your landing or I’ll twist my shoulder.” He drops his arms to his sides, flashes a smile at Sakuraba that is nearly an apology. “Training won’t do us any good if we’re benched for the game, right?”

Sakuraba doesn’t  _want_  to stop. There’s a part of him that’s desperate, that insists that they keep going until he collapses from exhaustion, until he physically can’t make himself stay on his feet. And there’s another part of him that just doesn’t want to go home, that has been quietly enjoying the focused attention of the other boy, tangible as a touch even from across the length of the field. But Takami’s right -- Sakuraba’s only just back from his last injury, he doesn’t want to suffer through the slow recovery process again. So he dips his head in affirmative, offers a smile of his own, and hands the football over to the other boy as they turn to walk back towards the bench at the side of the field.

“You’re doing really well,” Takami says before Sakuraba can think of anything sufficiently interesting to drop into the silence. He’s pulling his glasses off one-handed, rubbing them clean with the edge of his shirt; without the frames his face looks younger, oddly vulnerable, as if the shape grants him the same protection their helmets do. “You’re improving even faster than I hoped for.”

Sakuraba flushes, grins with unaffected delight at the praise. “I’m glad.” He sighs, lets the tension of focus start to drain out of his limbs and into the lethargy of a long day of training. “I need to get better as fast as I can.”

“You’re definitely dedicated enough,” Takami says. He slides his glasses back on, tips his head up to blink at the dark sky overhead. “I’m impressed. You’ve really committed yourself to this.”

“Yeah.” Sakuraba’s still watching Takami, idly tracking the sheen of sweat collecting into a path along the other boy’s hairline to slide down the back of his neck and under the collar of his shirt. “It’s the least I could do for you.”

Takami looks down at him so quickly Sakuraba doesn’t have time to pull his eyes away to a safer location. He looks up and into the other boy’s dark gaze, feels self-consciousness flare under his skin. His blush is less visible in the dark but he’s going hot enough he thinks Takami can probably still tell, and when he lifts a hand to drag through his hair the lack of resistance only makes it worse. It reminds him of the implications of his last grand gesture, the flicker of consideration in Takami’s eyes in the mirror and the warmth of Takami’s fingers brushing against his forehead and the back of his neck, the brief drag of the other boy’s hand over his shoulder.

Finally Takami looks away, clears his throat as he tosses the football to land atop his bag where its leaning against the bench. “I appreciate it,” he says, quietly enough that Sakuraba wouldn’t hear it if he weren’t listening for any kind of a response to distract him from the heat under his skin. “You’re doing so much for this. For me.”

Sakuraba draws to a halt, watches as Takami turns away and reaches to pick his bag up. He can see the damp of sweat collected against Takami’s shoulderblades, evidence that he’s not the only one working hard for this. Takami straightens, but he doesn’t turn for a moment; there’s the sound of a forced cough, a sigh, and then he says, “I want to be worth it.”

“You are,” Sakuraba says, and it’s too fast and too warm on his tongue, but Takami isn’t looking at him so he doesn’t see the heat that washes Sakuraba’s entire face for a moment. “I want to be good for myself, too, and for the team, but you deserve a partner who’s as dedicated as you’ve been.” There’s an ache in his chest, a memory of Takami’s effort that he doesn’t want to look at directly; the tears are close enough as it is. “I want to be that for you.”

Takami doesn’t speak for a long while. He’s facing away, still, Sakuraba can’t see his face. After a minute the blond steps in closer, close enough that he can touch Takami’s arm. Even then it takes him a moment to summon the courage to brush his fingers over the other boy’s bare skin, to collect the salt-sweat moisture and the heat of Takami’s body on his fingertips.

“Takami?”

Takami turns his head, glances down at Sakuraba’s hesitant touch. He smiles, weak and shaky, and Sakuraba is just starting to draw his hand away when the other boy shuts his eyes, and sighs what sounds like a sob, and says, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Every inch of Sakuraba’s skin flashes hot for a moment. Then the heat evaporates into the chill of shock and utter disbelief, he chokes on a breath, and Takami turns his head away, lifts a hand to cover his self-deprecating smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says, clear and shaky with misery. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Sakuraba takes a breath past lips gone numb, lets it out. He can hear it shaking as badly as Takami’s voice is.

“I’m sorry,” Takami says again, and drops his hand, clears his throat.

“You can,” Sakuraba says, carefully so the words don’t twist into a whimper in his throat, and Takami goes so still Sakuraba can see the shock flooding into the other boy’s body.

They’re both very still for a moment. Sakuraba’s eyes catch on Takami’s fingers at the strap of his bag; they’re clenching and unclenching, idle convulsions like he’s using the motion to work through whatever he’s thinking. Takami turns, very slowly. His chin is tipped down, his eyes hidden behind the frame of his glasses; then he lifts his head, just barely, just enough that he can look through the lenses at Sakuraba’s face.

“Are you sure?” he says, without asking Sakuraba to repeat himself. His words are as precise as his throws, measured and flattened into total sincerity so Sakuraba knows exactly what he’s asking, knows what he’s agreeing to when he lets a shaky breath go and nods.

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. They’re still close, close enough Sakuraba isn’t sure Takami’s going to move at all. He can see the other boy swallow, can see the tension wash through his shoulders and into determination. Takami reaches up, slides his bag off his shoulder so he can lower it back to the ground, lets his hold go once more until both his hands are free.

Sakuraba almost flinches when Takami’s fingers come up against his shoulder. He’s been training himself to draw back from this contact, from the heat and the sparking reaction Takami’s hands draw out of him. He fights it back, barely, even though the heat tightens his shoulders and spine into panicked stiffness, sends his thoughts whirling into incoherent speed as time slows, as Takami leaning in becomes a process that spans minutes. Sakuraba can’t think, can’t move, he can feel each of Takami’s fingers holding steady at his shoulder, it’s like he’s not wearing a shirt at all for how hot his skin feels in response.

Then Takami’s mouth touches his, and Sakuraba’s eyes shut of their own accord, and his thoughts go silent. Everything is hanging still, and quiet, and warm; his heart is pounding too fast and his lungs are aching with a breath held too long, but his mouth is flushing hot and hypersensitive. He can feel Takami’s sigh of relief, can feel the press as the other boy pushes in harder against his mouth, and he breathes out through his nose, and reaches out to rest his hand at Takami’s waist, and leans in himself. Takami tastes like salt, his lips are dry and softer than Sakuraba expected; his breath against the other boy’s cheek is hot, his fingers are spasming in that same involuntary flutter against Sakuraba’s shoulder. Sakuraba’s thoughts are just starting to catch up, starting to process that Takami is kissing him, that they’re kissing each  _other_ , when Takami takes a sharp inhale, and draws back enough that their lips separate, though his fingers stay tense and desperate on Sakuraba’s shoulder.

“Okay,” Takami says. He’s so close still Sakuraba can’t see his whole face at once, just isolated pieces: parted lips, shadowed eyes, dark hair.

“Good,” Sakuraba says, not sure what he’s talking about. “Good, that was good.”

Takami laughs, sudden and startled, and Sakuraba’s adrenaline shifts gears from stunned into delight, his mouth curves into a smile he can’t fight back even when he tries to rein it in.

“I’m glad,” Takami says, and lets Sakuraba’s shoulder go. When he steps back Sakuraba lets his hand fall as well; when Takami clears his throat, turns back to collect his bag once more, Sakuraba scrambles to do the same, to turn his back in hopes of gaining some kind of control over the absurd smile forcing itself onto his lips. He can taste the salt of Takami’s skin on his lips when he licks them, can still feel lingering pressure of Takami’s fingers at his shoulder.

He just has his expression back under control when he turns back around to catch the other boy’s gaze lingering against the back of his neck. His control evaporates into another grin, and Takami glances away but he’s grinning too, flushing dark enough that Sakuraba can see the color even in the dim light. He clears his throat, turns to walk off the field, and Sakuraba falls into step with him, keeping his eyes on the ground in front of them rather than risking looking at the other boy’s face.

Walking is harder than it was before. Sakuraba can’t remember what a reasonable distance is, and apparently neither can Takami; they both keep veering away, then come in too close, and Sakuraba is pretty sure their hands didn’t get tangled up on their way  _into_  the field but now it’s like their fingers are magnetized and catching on each other every time they move. Sakuraba’s just flexing his fingers, trying to shake off the unusually clumsiness suffusing his limbs, when Takami’s hand swings back too far and the other boy’s last two fingers catch on Sakuraba’s thumb. Sakuraba takes a breath, and lets his fingers relax, and Takami’s hand fits into his like it takes no effort at all.

His hand is sticky with heat by the time they get back to his apartment, but Takami doesn’t let go, and Sakuraba doesn’t stop smiling.


End file.
